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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252950">You Can't Trust Comfort</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror'>voiceless_terror</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Prompt Fill, Whump, canon typical worms, episode 40, season one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:09:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252950</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Prentiss attack, Jon doesn't make it through all of the interviews.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>242</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Can't Trust Comfort</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For anon prompt: I have been seeing those posts about ep 40 jon being injured and sleep deprived in the archives interviewing the others. Jon probably hasn’t come down from that getting wormed fear/adrenaline.. maybe he’s about to have a breakdown.. but tims there. Or martin or both.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“...It’s just pain.”</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pain. That’s all. He can work through that, he’s done it before. The pills are wearing off, his entire body throbbing and wrestling with the feeling of hundreds of frantic, wriggling worms burrowing in and <em>feasting- </em>no, best not to think about that. He’s got to stay in control.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Control. Control is standing in his own office, leaning against his file cabinet surrounded by the corpses of worms with his boss sitting in front of him. His boss who is currently giving him an unimpressed stare, demanding that he go home. But it’s alright, he can do this.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>It’s just pain.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Elias recounts what happened when Sasha came up to his office, alerting him to Prentiss’s attack. His voice is measured and controlled, but his face betrays a level of disgust that they all feel, the living reminder of which sits in front of him, bleeding and fidgeting as he tries to stay upright, <em>squirming</em> not unlike the-<em>no.</em> Stop.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wishes he had the tape, but Sasha lost it in the confusion. This second-hand retelling is stale and hard to swallow. Elias sounds perfectly reasonable, as always, apologizing to Jon for taking too long with the CO2 to which Jon only replies “It’s fine. We’re alive.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Just barely.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But then he talks about the <em>scream.</em> And Jon hears it all over again, that impossible sound of agony and rage that sung out as his world faded to black. And then Elias talks about how he stumbled upon them, compared them to fucking <em>swiss cheese</em> and he’s got to stop him, raising a trembling, still-bleeding hand. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that. No, Prentiss is <em>gone. </em>What he needs to focus on now is Gertrude- how she died, who killed her. If the person who did it was sitting in this very room. If he’s going to be next.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He imagines his body, lying forgotten in the tunnels as Gertrude’s did all those months. No one looking for him, no one caring. He’ll never get his answers, he’ll just lie there and rot like all those <em>worms-</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Elias gives no more useful information, repeating the story as if Jon’s being irrational and urges him to go home. <em>You can barely stand.</em> It’s true. But if he sits, he’ll have to look Elias in the eye instead of standing over him, grasping what little high ground he can. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Martin finding her body in the tunnels is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Is it? </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sighs, succumbing to exhaustion and sinking to his seat.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can you send in Tim?”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>Tim’s voice is strange and detached. He sounds...traumatized, which is of course to be expected. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s probably still high, too. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s odd, how these things affect them. It’s sharpened all of Jon’s edges to an untenable degree, every movement a sharp agony of tangled nerves that sends his mind spiraling. But it dulled Tim, left him foggy and so unlike himself. He stares blankly somewhere to the left of Jon, as if meeting his eyes and seeing his own injuries laid out before him like a warped funhouse mirror would be too much, would undo this strange facsimile of a workday that Jon’s tried to conjure. Just the two of them in his office, discussing a case. Pay no mind to the dead worms or the blood coating the ground and the desk and his arm and his leg and-</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“...I mean, I went full Gas-Rambo.” Tim. That sounds like Tim. His voice may be wrong but the words are there, teasing and familiar. He comes back, clears his throat and nods. But then Tim keeps going, slides back into his memories and makes them lucid for Jon.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know that worm smell? That earthy, rotten smell?”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Oh, yes. </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s still there, cloying and wretched reminder that it is. Elias told him to leave the basement, told him that he and Tim needed fresh air. But Jon wouldn’t listen, he <em>never</em> listens. And that’s why they’re in this mess.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But the why is bigger than that, too. He needs to know why Gertrude was in the tunnels, why she was killed, why these statements disturb him so and why the Archives feel wrong, like an intruder’s in their midst. He thinks he knows where he can find the answers. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Could you...describe the tunnels?” Tim sighs, but Jon presses on. Perhaps through someone else’s eyes he’ll find the one detail he missed, the one thing that explains it all and gives him peace of mind.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s quite the opposite. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Because the worms down there, in that room Tim found, weren’t trying to attack anyone. They were crawling, wrapping around each other to form a ring- no, a <em>doorway.</em> Jon’s mind fixates on the word and Tim stares resolutely ahead, looking weary and drained. He has to hold it together, just two more interviews and he can go home and rest <em>(and think and weep and scream)</em>. He clears his throat, lowers his voice to the register he finds most authoritative and tells Tim to go home and get some sleep. Tim rolls his eyes at the action, but gets to his feet, slow and pained.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah. Sure.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He starts to shuffle towards the door but something twitches out of the corner of Jon’s eye, a tiny, jumping movement like...like a <em>worm.</em> He lets out a whimper as his mind shuts down, starts tearing at his arms, ripping at the bandages because something’s still there, burrowing deeper into his skin and soon it’s going to hit bone and where’s the corkscrew, where’s Martin’s steady hands and strong grip, he needs <em>help-</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Whoa, there!” Tim’s coming back but he shouldn’t be, not when there’s worms all over his desk, crawling and jumping and devouring.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She’s- she’s still <em>here,</em> can’t you see?” Jon’s tripping over words, stumbling out of his seat as he tries to avoid the writhing mass he sees below him. “Get h-help, we need- <em>Martin!</em> Martin, are you there?” It’s hard to walk, hard to move but he does it anyway, grabbing at the wall for balance as Tim backs away- <em>good, go, get out, get help-</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> Rapid footsteps sound and Martin appears in the doorway, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What’s- oh <em>Jon,</em> you’ve ripped your bandages, let me-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon doesn’t care about that right now. Not when he can hear their song, not when Gertrude was rotting in the walls for so long and he didn’t know, <em>he didn’t know.</em> She became a mystery and he will too, it’s just a matter of time. He grabs onto Martin’s arm, clawing at his jumper with desperate hands.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She’s-she’s-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There’s no one here, Jon. She’s gone. The ECDC took care of it,” Martin’s just trying to placate him, he can see the pity in his eyes. Maybe he needs it. But if Prentiss is gone, that doesn’t mean the danger is. Even if he can tell himself there are no worms, it’s all in his mind, there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his head- <em>you’re next. </em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>So he holds on tighter, dragging Martin down to his level with a movement that makes him flush. “You- you saw her, Martin. Gertrude. How did she die?”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Jon, please, just sit down-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pulls harder, raises his voice. “How did she die?”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Jon-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“How?” </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She was shot! Three times to the chest. Th-That’s what I saw.” Martin’s eyes widen, as if the words were torn from him involuntarily.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Shot. <em>Shot. </em>The words echo somehow in this small, cluttered room and Jon can’t wrap his mind around them. She wasn’t attacked by Prentiss, killed by some unknowable enemy. She was shot. With a gun. A gun wielded by someone who had a reason to take the Archivist out. Someone who might still have that reason. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He staggers back, releasing Martin and collapsing with what might be a sigh or a wail- he can’t hear what’s coming out of his mouth. He dimly registers a hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm but it feels like a <em>threat</em> because something’s wrong here, something’s after him and maybe it’s Martin, who found the corpse. Maybe it’s Tim, collapsed silently in the chair. Maybe it’s Elias, telling him to go home where he’s alone and vulnerable and easy to get. So he scrambles back against his desk, breathing heavily with his arms thrown out in front of him.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin was right, there are no worms here. Prentiss is gone. And something worse, and perhaps much more human is waiting in the shadows.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“..just needs sleep and some painkillers. I can take him back, call us a cab-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“-both full of <em>holes,</em> for Christ’s sake. Jon’s <em>scratching</em> at himself! I’m not going to leave you on your own.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This isn’t some fun archives sleepover, Martin, you aren’t missing out on anything, I promise-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shut <em>up!”</em> Martin’s voice breaks through the fog, loud and commanding in a way it usually isn’t. Jon hazards a glance up to see him standing at full height and even Tim looks shocked, leaning back in his chair as much as it allows. Martin goes red, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice. “That’s not what this is about, just...just let me <em>do</em> this. Let me make sure you’re alright. <em>Please.”</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tim pauses, but gives in with a sigh. “Fine. I drove in, bad day for it. You fine with driving us back, or should we take a cab? I need to sleep.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon raises his voice, tired of being talked about as if he weren’t in the room and can’t make decisions for himself. “N-No. I’m not going back with either of you-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quit it, Jon.” Tim gingerly rises to his feet, shooting a tired look at his hunched form. “Nobody’s out to get you, you just need to get some fucking <em>sleep</em> and you’ll feel better. Now get up, or we’re leaving without you.” He clearly doesn’t mean it, because he pauses and waits for them in the doorway, watching as Martin bends down to offer his hand.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon’s hand automatically reaches out to grab his, but he stops himself. Maybe it’s his best shot- if it’s one of them, they may not make a move if the other one’s present. If it’s someone outside of their group, their odds are better for fighting them off. But if it’s Tim and Martin, well.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon takes his hand. because what other choice does he have? Only bad ones, it would seem. Martin helps him to his feet. “Are you sure you can walk? I can-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m fine.” If he’s going to die, he’d rather do it on his two feet and spare himself the indignity of holding onto his killer. He lets Martin keep a hand on his back, though- he can’t walk without it.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Every slow step is agony; he ignores Sasha smirk on the way out and eventually finds himself bundled in the backseat of Tim’s beat up silver sedan. He considers asking for the passenger seat as his nausea might get the best of him back here, but thinks better of it. <em>Better to be back here and alone.</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But then he isn’t alone, because Tim hesitates and moves to the back, wincing as he sits beside him. <em>Why would he do that? What does he want?</em>  Jon wraps his arms around himself and scoots as far as he can to the side, trying to focus on Martin fiddling with the car and not the presence beside him. The radio blasts as soon as the engine roars to life and Jon flinches back, fingers burrowing deeper into his arms.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin begins to drive, not saying a word as he pulls out into traffic; he knows where they’re going, but Jon doesn’t. Tim must see his confusion.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Were you not listening? We’re going back to mine.”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon casts his eyes to the floor. “I-I don’t <em>want</em> to-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you have unexpired food at your flat, Jon?” His face heats up- he’d been living on leftovers in the Archives, so that’s a no. “Will you actually rest if you go back on your own? Will you-” There’s a hand on Jon’s own, gentle but firm as Tim pulls it away from his arm and forces it down to the seat. “-stop <em>picking.”</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sorry,” he whispers, but Tim doesn’t let go, just holds his hand in his and leans his head against the window, staring out at the road. Jon doesn’t pull back, no matter how much he wants to. He just looks down, staring at the larger hand on his own and wonders how easy it would be for Tim to break it. Just one good, hard squeeze and a crush of bone but no, Tim just absentmindedly runs his thumb over Jon’s knuckles and somehow this hurts more.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They must make an odd couple, he and Tim bandaged like mummies staggering up the steps with Martin at the helm. He’s been here a few times and he has to fight against the instinctive ease he feels upon walking through the threshold. Martin’s talking and Tim’s barking out short answers, dropping his belongings as he limps towards the bedroom and makes a dismissive gesture at Martin. Jon feels strangely outside of his body, looking in on a bastardized scene of domesticity through a foggy haze of pain and unreality. With a start he comes back to himself, and suddenly he’s on Tim’s couch; time must have passed for he’s wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea in his hands and a lump in his throat. And he’s <em>talking,</em> watching as Martin fixes his bandage with a careful hand. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“...tapes are <em>gone,</em> Martin. Sasha said she lost them but I don’t understand-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Prentiss practically destroyed the Archives, Jon, I’m surprised more aren’t missing. Look, Tim’s already asleep, you should do the same-”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Sleep? How can I sleep when-</em> “Someone killed Gertrude,” he whispers and his hands shake, tea dripping down the side of his mug and scalding his skin. “And they’re going to get me next. Can’t you <em>see?”</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Two hands wrap around his own- big, like Tim’s but softer and unscarred. Kind, but still capable. Of what, Jon doesn’t know. He lifts his eyes towards Martin and sees it- Martin’s scared too, doesn’t know what to do with Jon’s ramblings and doesn’t know how to comfort him or make it better.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Drink your tea.” There’s an edge of hysteria in his voice, a naked plea that Jon finds unnerving. “And I’ll keep watch. You’ve- you’ve got us, Jon.” It’s so sincere. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon <em>wants</em> to believe it. “I do?”</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yes.”</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He drinks his tea and feels the fogginess from painkillers he doesn’t remember taking slip over him, quieting the voice in his head to a barely audible whisper. The pain’s gone but the memory of it doesn’t fade; he stifles a manic giggle as a childish tune pops into his head. <em>The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out!</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyes drift shut as the cup is pried out of his grip, a gentle hand pushing him to lay down on the sofa. He hears the dull murmur of comforting words and a sniffle- he’s going to go to sleep soon, Martin will be the only one awake, and Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do or what he’s capable of. But he’s so, so tired. And he may not trust Martin, but he wants him to stay.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wakes only once during the night to see the outline of Martin sitting in a chair, scribbling something in a notebook. It’s so innocuous he can’t help the tiny noise of relief that slips out of his mouth. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin doesn’t even look over, just quietly tells him to go back to sleep as if he’s hushed him a few times already. Maybe he has. The normalcy of it is like a peek into some universe he’s not yet privy to; Jon knows he shouldn’t trust the comfort of it. <em>And yet. </em></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He goes back to sleep.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello there! Always wanted to do something with episode forty, so I'm glad I got this prompt! Got super fixated on the transcripts- I cannot believe Elias canonically called Jon 'bloody swiss cheese' and I didn't pick up on it.</p><p>Anyway, hope you enjoyed and would like to see your comments! Consider it an early christmas present. You can find me @voiceless-terror on tumblr for asks/prompts/general yelling. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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